


Dementor's Kiss

by Abby_Ebon



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fairy Tale, M/M, Multi
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-07-02
Updated: 2012-07-02
Packaged: 2017-11-09 01:06:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 5
Words: 13,592
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/449560
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Abby_Ebon/pseuds/Abby_Ebon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>For Sabishii Kage Tenshi. Harry has had many dealings with the monsters that snarl and stir in the dark; even so, there is nothing he is more enthralled and terrified of then a Dementor. Having failed a Patronus; he has a choice. Join them, or die. SLASH!</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Trespass Of Memory

**Author's Note:**

> This features a Dementor/Harry pairings, and will have at least three lemons/sex/smut scenes; while I'm going to be changing a few things and answering a few questions (where do the immortal Dementor's come from? What are they? Other then being very tall, wraith like, blind, what do they look like under their cloaks?) in my own way; if your internal impression of Dementor's is marred by the movie and you are thus disgusted by the thought – well, go away and don't bother with reading any further then this. I have the same feeling anytime I think about what they did to werewolves….-snarls-
> 
> I also happen to think that the Dementor's are best represented in the art of Harry Potter; hooded wraiths of which rumors are abound.
> 
> Dedication; this is written for Sabishii Kage Tenshi who posted the review that met the review goal for "Reader Rewards" in the story "Dancing Within Mist"; I decided to take her up on the challenge she posted on her profile though she did offer a alternate story (Harry get's together with Sirius and Remus in the summer after fourth year when they check upon him without telling anyone else. They find him in a bar where they get drunk and the three wake up the next morning in a hotel all sore after having sex. -evil giggles-...) yet I found myself tangled up in thoughts of how to work out this challenge…. the rest of the challenge you may read for yourself in the author notes at the end of the chapter. I tend to think of them as something like spoilers.

Harry felt breath stutter in surprise, he shivered. The bottoms of his toes were numb with cold; he tightened his jaw so his teeth did not clatter together.

When he exhaled; he hadn't been surprised to see white whiff out of his mouth. The air he breathed in felt like something frozen (though he _knew_ it was supposed to be summer still). He _knew_ he was dreaming, when he realized he was alone. _This_ , he knew with the tightening in his gut; _was wrong_.

His heart beat suddenly wild against his ribs, as if it longed to fly free.

He realized too late that he was trapped.

Harry saw –and understood, then - with his own eyes then what his body and his instincts had been screaming at him. He knew why he wanted to run. Why there was a shrill voice whispering in his mind. What he had taken to be only darkness outside the gritty windows on the train was not what he had thought it to be; nothing was as harmless as the shadows of trees that leaned closer to the stalled train with the wind.

No, something more sinister by far was stirring outside. They moved like clouds over the sky; taking their time about moving. It was all too clear they had closed in on him; they had him encircled. He was being hunted.

' _They can not get in_.' Harry thought, though all the same; he took a step back from the locked door that stood between him and what predators lurked in the night. Tall wraith-like figures he would be a fool not to recognize.

For all that he was a wizard – to them, he was nothing more then _prey_.

Having moved slow and deliberately forward, it stood in plain view of the window.

' _Dementor_ ….' Harry thought even as his fear choked him. He could not save himself this time. Emptiness welled within him; he had never been so alone.

The black cloak figure, as if sensing (which it likely did) his despair breathed against the glass. Harry was reminded of the one time he had ever been to a zoo; the boa constrictor. It had hinted at the people, tapping on the glass cage while they stood free - yet enchanted - upon the other side. His whole life had been a mockery of that same glass cage. Now something wanted to free him. Or kill him.

Harry trembled, not moving; the eerie feeling of being measured did not fade or pass.

As the Dementor breathed; frost formed on the window. It cracked, leaving the illusion of a spider web. Harry dared not even breathe, for fear of it shattering. He felt a weight on his shoulder. He looked – he remembered even as he turned his head that he was not _supposed_ to look (though he did not know how he knew even that) – the hand on his shoulder was bone thin, elegant and pale; he heard rattling breath too close to his ear.

Frozen breath ruffled his hair. He was caught.

His dream mercifully – _tortuously_ \- shifted perspective.

O.o.O.o.O.o.O

He flew. It was as fast as he had ever gone. He clung to his broom (did it have a life of its own; was he in control at all?) breathing in the though the sleeve of his arm tucked against his nose and mouth. Even with his glasses, his eyes stung with the wind and speed.

He was breathless. He was being reckless. He did not care.

Not about the magical world and its need for _him_ (why was he so important, after all? He'd done it once – what grown wizards and witches could not; he had survived- and what was there not to live for? Hadn't he shown them that? Could they not find the will to fight for themselves? Perhaps then, they were not meant to survive – why had he never thought of that?) to save it; again.

Not about friends (a boy with flaming red hair; a buck toothed girl – was that all he was worth?) or so-called family (a shrill and hasty aunt – an uncle who did not throw his punches – a cousin who was still learning the meaning of morals).

Not about school (wand waving, chopping caldron ingredients, be spelling and whispering words that he thought secretly silly – could they not tell it was the will and spirit that did the magic; not the wand waving and words? – magical happenings he could not tell heads or tails of; diving the future from tea leaves – and risking is health, over and over, for defense….).

Not about the future (would he grow up to be someone the wizards and witches might respect?) which hung in front of him – uncertain threats (would he die if Death Eater's fixed it in their minds that he _needed_ to die?) – or, more real – would he fail as a wizard? Would he take what he learned and tuck it aside for a life among "normal" and certain things? Harry could not find the answer in flight.

He did not care to know.

He ducked to the ground – going vertical for a heart jolting moment – he was spinning in tight circles. Dizzy, delighted – he crowed with laughter when he evened out (the toes of his bare feet brushed gently across the grass) then flew higher. He was aware of the creeping cold first, though he thought nothing of it. Perhaps it was a sudden wind chill. Or the air becoming thin the higher he flew (he did not even know how far a broom could go up – could it penetrate the atmosphere…would he want it to?) only that there were no clouds in the sky; only streaks of blue summer sun.

Then he saw clouds, miles of them, unnoticeable from the ground – it went on seemingly endless; hovering over the whole of the horizon as far as he could see. Was it a barrier between breathable air and thinner colder air – or something grander - between this world and another – perhaps the afterlife laid beyond them? There was only one way to find out – to go _through_ them. Harry glanced below – he could see like a twisting silver ribbon the river, and the dark forest stretched out over the land like a cancer. He should have been terrified of falling. He was not. He knew (in the way that dreamers always _knew_ ) that he could _never_ fall.

He would only fly forever. At some point the past (distant – or yesterday, he did not know, only knowing it was the past) he had gotten on a broom and started flying and didn't stop. He remembered snatches of what he had done with this new life of flying the sweet taste of apples plucked in the early morning. His broom would hover above clouds while he slept safely.

Harry felt the dampness – the chill colder still – cling wetly through the cloth to his skin. He flew higher. Harry realized he had never felt so alive. He saw the haze of clouds above him glimmering with sunlight and knew he would break the "surface"; he shut his eyes and held his breath. He did not know why. When he felt the sun against his neck he opened his eyes; the glare off the white clouds below – rolling endlessly as far as he could see, like snow - was intense. Snow glare did not quite fit, but he could not think of any other word for it.

He was not alone. He _felt_ them, shadows creeping towards him where there shouldn't be darkness among all the white rolling clouds below and the sun glaring down from above. All the while he had been flying; he had not realized until now – when he had paused – that he was being chased.

They glided slowly toward him like clouds for all they were capable of swifter movements here then on the ground; they were in no rush – they had him cornered. Surrounded, he knew now what he was all along; hunted. One in front – one to each side – with them came the emptiness, the aloneness he had not felt while flying – he was grateful for them (though they _caused_ him to feel so alone, they were _with_ him) it was more then he could say for those he had knowingly left behind to the mercy of the Dark Lord.

Unlike those he had left on the ground – he knew now that he could not escape the magical creatures that had followed him aloft. Dementors. He should have been more afraid. He was not. He was tired. Wary. He knew then – as they closed ranks and pressed in close enough that Harry felt the flutter of their grey cloaks against his thighs and flanks; he knew he would not run. Not any more.

There was relief in knowing that – a surety. Still, his heart beat was quick – his muscles tensed – his adrenaline surging though him. It was not a hunt, he realized as they flanked about him seeming almost to dance – to show off – this was a chase.

Harry gasped for the meaning behind the thought – clutched at it – then it was gone; as were his surrounds. His dream had changed.

O.o.O.o.O.o.O

Dementors encircled him – silvery light (his Patronus…?) was fading – his friends had fallen when overwhelmed; Harry stood protectively over Sirius Black – escapee of Azkaban, godfather – the closest person Harry had to family. His breath was coming out –straining, white drifted from his lips like the soul the Dementors sought to claim. It seemed to tremble within him – longing to leave – there was no deferring it from his heart – from his mind – his soul was everything. It was his very being.

' _What_ ,' Harry wondered the thought impetuously, ' _would the Dementors want with me_?'

He wondered if he was any different from anyone else – he had to be, right? – he had fainted fallen off his broom overwhelmed with what sorts of feelings and memories they could stir within him.

There was a reason his greatest fear was a Dementor rather then the Dark Lord. He felt no _desperate longing_ for Voldemort; he did not fear to loose his sense of self while facing a man of flesh and blood – he feared and _longed for_ , if his contact with a Dementor was prolonged – would he not go willingly into a kiss? If it meant the twisting horror within and the relief of a twisted memory of reliving his parents deaths over, over, and over again…hearing them, would it not be worth becoming soulless if he knew he would never forget them?

Some people, Harry knew, are only _happy_ while miserable – in despair – Harry had not thought he was one of those; he knew differently now.

He knew it when he did not fight – did not so much as resist the press of cloth and solid strength when the light faded utterly. Harry was alone in the dark. No, he knew as he stared sightlessly upward not knowing where night began and the hood of the Dementor ended. Did it hover over him? Were the lights he saw stars? Or something else…souls consumed – forever entombed within a being that was immortal? Did those souls mean something to the Dementor – or were they merely food – was it all a witch or wizard was to them? Living, they would be an emotional feast – did dying with a kiss change that alien perspective?

Harry had no way of knowing. He did not think he would ever truly _know_. Not even in a dream. He felt the cold breath touch his face like a caress. He shivered, gasping in the faint scent – musky spice –when he felt the weight straddling his waist shift. Another cool breath brew over him; protective and calming, he was beyond the agony of having a body – beyond the turmoil of his emotions which stormed about his mind – there was only the desire to hear his parents – to wonder if the touch he felt was theirs or his mind playing tricks in deluding him. Even that did not matter – only the weight that rested against him mattered.

He wondered if it usually took so long for a Dementor to take a soul.

There was movement then, as the magical creature leaned in impossibly closer – Harry could not help himself as he tensed – cool lips, firm and smooth, moved against his with words he heard within his mind – felt echo in his very bones – heard with his soul. He could not say what those words were aloud – but he heard them. They meant something to him; more then anything else he had given his whole life. He grasped that he should say something back – he opened his mouth, mind, and soul to speak…the contact was subtle and tremulous – this was his once-in-a-life-time chance.

Then he woke up.


	2. Betrayal Of The Body

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You know, I'm trying to decide which is more disturbing to someone who is not familiar to my methods; that I've realized that this is my first non-crossover Harry Potter story. As in, first ever; or that my second fully Harry Potter story might very well feature (animagus) Harry!Chihuahua, and result with a threesome slash with Draco and Blaise…
> 
> I don't think just anyone else could claim such a thing; or would want to. Or add it to the fact that I'm in the midst of writing a time-travel story in which there are older!Harry and younger!Harry who might do naughty things to each other, the result of Sabishii Kage Tenshi 's former request…-coughs- now, however, I am oddly inordinately pleased with this reasoning and credit to my own…oddity.
> 
> I'm in a peculiar mood, obviously. Ah, well, the better to write with!

Harry breathed in quick, a reflex to waking. Even in the summer heat, he was chilled; his skin slick with sweat that clung to his bed sheets. He could not catch his breath. His chest heaved, panting – his gaze avoiding the shadows of the darkened room. He was _tired_ , but he knew he would not be able to go back to sleep.

Harry sat up with a sigh, rubbing at his face and hair, both felt oily. Between his fingers, he looked toward the window, there was nothing out there, only wet asphalt and street lamps kept the dark at bay. He felt his disappointment keenly, the longing that stirred in his lower belly seemed to tighten, unresolved. It didn't matter what he, shoulders achingly stiff, refused to acknowledge. Harry felt ridicules for the sense of unease – as if he were watched, though surely there no one was about outside on a night as this; it had only been a strange and disorienting dream.

Reluctantly, he turned his face away from the window, standing shakily from the rumpled bed, he felt as if something watched his back even as he padded quietly into the bathroom. It was dark outside and surely the Dursley's still slept and would not wake so early easily. Still, he flinched only a little as the metal screeched in protest as Harry turned the shower knobs. Cold water washed over him, he remembered the dream, dwelling on it, and shivered, though it had nothing to do with the water.

As the water warmed, he stood beneath it, head bowed. If he closed his eyes, he remembered the realities that his dreams mirrored. His first encounter with a Dementor on the Hogwarts train his Third Year; the flight with them that had almost ended with his falling to his death (yet in the dream he had known, with them, that he would never fall), and then, saving Sirius – saving himself from their grips. Reality was a cruel thing, his dreams had been kinder. Still, figments of the dreams haunted him; he could still feel the words the Dementor had spoken against his own lips.

Harry sighed softly, steam rising from his lips. Even if Professor Lupin _hadn't_ known that his greatest fear –greatest _desire_ \- was a Dementor (as the Boggart had proven, though Harry had only gotten a glimpse, he _knew_ ) within his own mind there was certainly no doubts. You could, Harry knew, fear what you longed for.

Harry didn't have a death wish. Not really, he didn't think. It was a _something else_ wish; a desire that had crept under his skin and pulled relentlessly in his blood. He might as well say he had no fears. He did fear though, he only _desired_ that pulse of fear that quickened his heart and blood and gave him focus and strength. Adrenaline junkie, he'd heard the phrase before. He didn't know wholly what it meant, but he guessed it could rightly put to his trait.

As the shower water steamed warm about him, he missed the bite of the cold. He pretended to himself that it was only that the warm water made him sleepy, but that was not the real reason. Truth tugged low in his belly, the cold reminded him of his dreams, and Dementors cold touch. He did not know their touch – not really – and certainly not like that, as his dreams had shown. Cold was only how they made him feel. There was something freeing in that cold, something of truth to the reality of the world that heat could not give him.

Suds ran down his shoulders, and he held the slick bar of soap in his hand as he looked down at his body, a red flush creeping up his pale cheeks. Harry did not honestly know what to do with himself. Dudley spoke crudely - when away from Vernon and Petunia, of girls, and things boys were supposed to do to them. He made it sound disgusting and wrong. In his own way, Dudley knew more about what was happening then Harry did, not for the last time, Harry felt resentment at that surety of knowledge that Dudley held with such ease. It was something that Harry lacked, that Hogwarts – full of wizards and witches, would not speak of openly. Perhaps you were just supposed to know by instinct.

Awkwardly and feeling a jolt at his own boldness, fingers skimmed down his belly and thighs, daring and teasing the wanting of his own body but not yet touching where he yearned to. His belly was firm and flat, yet within it fluttered with the soft scratch of his nails and calloused fingers. Harry thought of hands then, elegant and pale, thin and long fingered; skeletal and smooth. They would be cool to the touch, colder then the heat of water and Harry's own hands. It felt wrong, like a betrayal, to touch himself where those hands ought to.

Harry opened his eyes, not knowing when he had closed them, dragging in the breath he needed. His chest felt tight, as if he could not get enough air. His legs trembled and Harry leaned against the shower wall, trembling and waiting and wanting and not sure what he needed and yearned for. The tile was cold at his back and buttocks and Harry opened his mouth, groaning as he could no longer resist touching the length of his groin. The skin was strangely smooth and silky; for all that the curl of black hair surrounded. There was hair too, on his navel, he remembered running a finger down it as he teased to fluttering in his belly.

A giggle crept up his throat, at the thought of an arrow, naturally made by his own body which betrayed its needs so easily, as the narrowing fine line of hair smoothed down his navel to groin. Touching himself soothed that creeping hysteria, his thoughts had felt widely scattered, leaping like stones in a still lake of want and need and desire. Now desire narrowed his focus, gave it an edge of promise that he had lacked. Until then he had not known what he was doing, not really, now his hand and fingers and skin moved with a purpose, a fulfillment, and dragged Harry along for the ride and its end.

It was strange, that Harry did not know what he wanted, but his body did and was using him to achieve his physical needs. He felt captive – caged – in his own limbs, and he whimpered softly, breathing out. He moved swifter, for he liked the thought of being held and used and ….

Harry's hips jerked helplessly, and he liked that too.

Cool tile soothed his burning skin. And even when he knew what it was he leaned against, his mind played tricks, that smooth coldness was sharply _not_ tile, but skin that burned cold, matching and soothing the burning heat that was consuming Harry. Echoing and matching him stroke for stoke, urging him onward.

" _Ours_."

A possessive promise whispered within his mind while he had slept and dreamed – helpless, a word murmured against his lips like a kiss. It made him cry out raggedly as his body jerked and twitched, finding the release and fullness as it peaked and dragged Harry down with it. Harry blinked wetness from his eyes, as the warm shower water lulled his body to boneless ease.

Harry brought his hand to his face, to see, and eyed the clear whiteness. Curious, his tongue lapped at a drop, and he did not know what to think of his taste. It lingered like a spice on his tongue, it was not a bad taste, but not really good either, but it was there and real in a way that was reassuring even as Harry felt he wasn't really where he was. He was even more tired then he thought he was when waking and getting into the shower. The water had been meant to wake him, not lull him to sleep.

Yet it was warm and soothing though a longing for cold stirred within him, aching. Perhaps it was only wishing for winter, when he'd be within Hogwarts; but that was wishful thinking and did not seem to settle quite right for why he longed for cold. Winter had little to do with it, for all that Harry liked the season for its cold.

In the end, his disturbed thoughts and reasons gave him reason to get up and wash off; to get out of the warm water - that longing eagerness for the soothing cold, and the wrongness he felt with the warmth. It would not go away, and Harry half wished that it never would, while he puzzled at it all the same. Harry dressed, because he was awake _now_ and had gone to sleep lazing in the summer sun of his window; he glanced to the time as he got to the foot of the stairs, checking absentmindedly at his wand in his a baggy back pocket. Glowing numbers and hands lighted in the dark.

It was late, but not as late as he had thought; Harry listened for his relatives then, familiar as he was to their sleeping sounds, it was not hard to hear them. The wheezing whine of Petunia, the threatening snore of Vernon – but there was no overly heavy breathing of Dudley. Which meant his cousin was still out with his gang, it did not surprise Harry, Dudley had the keys to the house and permission to come and go as he pleased. They let him go around too wild, Harry thought but did not say. It would only underline their point, he suspected, that Dudley was their son and favored, while Harry was some sort of modern charity case of a whipping boy.

Harry walked without really knowing where he was going, but after the heat of his shower it was nice to feel the chill night air on his smoldering skin.

"Hey, look Big D – it's the freak!" Harry glanced upward from the fringe of his bangs, green eyes narrowed. Dudley was looking at him wide eyed as if asking himself how Harry had been so stupid as to walk about like he was, but it was Piers who had spoken with a sneer.

"Yea..." Dudley muttered with a shrug, he wasn't quite looking at Harry, but away as if uninterested.

"What are you doing out so late creepy-freak?" Gordon asked with raised eyebrows.

"Taking a walk. What does it look like?" Harry stated plainly, not masking the obviousness he found in his own words.

"Looks like your fishing for trouble." Malcolm stated, looking Harry over from top to bottom.

"What if I am?" Harry touched the wand in his back pocket with his finger tips. Dudley caught the movement and flinched, but he had hanged back from his gang, letting them surround Harry, their focus on him rather then Dudley. They didn't seem to know what to do with Harry, who didn't agree or disagree, they baited him, waiting for him to take it personal so they'd have an excuse to stop circling like sharks and sniffing the water for blood, they'd bleed him with words if they could – and then it'd be a feeding frenzy.

"Where you going so late? Are you a druggy like the rumors say? He a druggy, Dud? All baggy clothes and black hair and bright eyes and dark sleepless circles. Bet you're a druggy." Piers taunted, lip curling in disgust. Malcolm looked over at Dudley questioning, asking without speaking if Piers rambling had any truth to it.

"What's it to you?" Harry asked him in turn, thinking it strange that Piers was so hooked on thinking of drugs and the worst of Harry. He doesn't care, really, what Dudley has told them about Harry.

"We protect our neighborhood, freak, from the likes of druggies." Malcolm states, and Harry knows better then to ask if he's serious because he looks like he thinks it's the truth. Harry glances to Dudley, who still won't look at him. Dudley is afraid of his wand, but knows Harry can't use magic outside school without getting into trouble.

"Nah. He's a wimp, doesn't do drugs, he has nightmares though. I hear him, his room is right next to mine." Dudley muses, taunting, and Harry frowns at him. Feeling a cold sinking in his gut, he's had dreams – nightmares – about what happened in the graveyard with Cedric, but the other boys snicker as if it's something small and stupid. Dudley straightens up, knowing he's got something he can use against Harry, that'll hurt him -without the other boys thinking he's a coward.

"What do you mean, Big D?" Harry asks mockingly, Gordon rolls his eyes as if he sees that all Harry's got is bravo – and maybe he's right to think so.

"Like 'don't kill Cedric!' Who's Cedric? You're … _boyfriend_?" Dudley sneers, having had enough of being afraid and thinking he's safe because he's surrounded by his gang and Harry isn't, after all, supposed to use magic. Harry feels the cold dread shiver up his spine, and he tenses up, surprised. His nails bite into his palms as his hands form fists. The cold dulls the pain in his chest that wants to eat into his heart; it lulls the grip in his gut.

"No. Cedric is dead." Harry answers softly, vaguely, as if it doesn't really matter. He doesn't feel as if he's really standing here, as if he isn't real – or this isn't.

"Freak…." Dudley hisses, he is looking him in the eye, and doesn't like what he sees, takes a step back. All Harry can feel is the cold. The night seems suddenly darker.

"Hey! What happened to all the street lights?" Piers says aloud- taking a step back from Harry, closer to Malcolm – his eyes scanning the streets and the lack of city light, and Harry realizes it isn't just in his head – it really is colder, and darker. Harry breaths, and white mist seeps into the cool air. There is a flutter in his gut, and it isn't pain.

"Come on. I don't like this. Let's get out of here." Gordon tells them, taking a step closer to the nearer still lighted house. All the street lights are out, and they stand in the middle of the eerie island of dark. Malcolm raises an eyebrow at Gordon, chill and mocking. He's just as afraid as his friend, but he won't show it.

"Afraid of the dark now too..?" He asks, it's got bite in it but Gordon doesn't take offence, he just keeps walking toward the light, slow, as if aware he's being hunted. Harry isn't paying any of the gang any mind, he's looking around in the dark, searching – as if he's one predator sniffing out another.

"Maybe it's catching." Piers mutters to him, soft and uneasily. He follows where Gordon leads, and Dudley, Harry's aware, is still standing as if frozen – eyes and focus on Harry, as if afraid of what Harry will find in the dark. Of what Harry might draw out. Faced with this, he isn't as afraid of the magic he knows Harry has, he's afraid of what the darkness is hiding. Harry feel a cold – freeing – lurch in his stomach, and knows.

Knows he's right. He isn't afraid, but he doesn't want to have to deal with what might happen to Dudley and the others, so he looks Dudley in the eye.

"Run." Harry orders, soft and sure and cold calm washes over his skin, goose bumps rising up his arm hair like hackles. Dudley gives one sucking breath in fright. He runs then, and the others follow without questioning him. Harry feels a cold hand touch the bare chilled skin on his shoulder; he looks absentmindedly down at the hand. Smooth and elegant, long fingered and pale white like bones. Harry can't help looking over his shoulder.

Just like in his dreams, the black rag cloth billows about like wings, it absentmindedly covers a wiry willow-tall body, wraith like, Harry feels the Dementor inhale deeply, and wonders what he scents and senses of Harry and the others. Does he smell the human scent of Dudley and the gangs fear? The water and shampoo Harry's hair is still damp with? Does it scent Harry…? His breath with the taste of his own cum on his lips and tongue…? Or does it taste Harry's soul?

Harry shivers, trembling as those long fingers trail up his neck, scratching possessively at his cheek. Something like eyes glitters in the fall of the dark hood. Harry feels wetness on his face, and knows he bleeds. It leans in closer, the black cloth draping over Harry like little wings enfolding him.

A tongue snatches up the dripping blood. Harry gasps softly, and the Dementor moves in closer, pressing Harry fully to its chest and body. Harry can feel everything that's hidden under the thin black cloth barrier at his back. He wonders why the Dementor dresses at all, in so thin black cloth so thread torn (not rotten after all, but unkempt and uncared for) it'd fall apart with ease. But it feels nice, like silk or something smooth that slides easily against sensitive skin.

Harry can't look away from what's under the hood, silver flickers, like the whites of eyes. The darkness seems to give them more distance then what's really there, Harry realizes, as lips press to the corner of his mouth, they are smooth and cold and Harry can't help but jerk in surprise. He doesn't jerk away, though, but closer, a tongue teases into his mouth running over the heat at the roof of his mouth, taunting his teeth to tingling and itching and soothing him with ease, and Harry closes his eyes.

Harry wonders if he's about to lose his soul. Then he doesn't think he cares.

" _Ours. You are ours_." It's a hiss of a voice, and it isn't English at all – its snake speech, Harry opens his eyes, surprised, wondering how something that's got its tongue down his throat can speak at all. Harry looks to his other side, feeling as if there is something hovering near him, watching. It's another Dementor, slimmer and shorter, and Harry knows it's the one that spoke. Skeletal fingers tighten about his neck possessively, and Harry knows he should be dead, or something, his soul devoured – but he isn't and he doesn't know why. He wants to know why.

" _How…_?" Harry asks, and gets the feeling he's being regarded with amusement; it's annoying and could turn to anger and fury…but, all his emotions are riled up in him, and he knows if he focuses he'll feel the storm of them under the surface of the frozen calm that lulls him; he is distant from them…secure. He likes that, controlling the feelings rather then being nothing but their puppet. He's been a puppet too long. They are giving him this control, Harry realizes as a thin arm wraps itself securely about Harry's middle.

" _You call to us to sooth you; like calls to like. Do not fear, we can not kill you; we can not die so you can not die. You will sustain us- our hunger will be sated by you alone, always. We have been searching for you,_ _Basiatio_ _. We will not let you be alone. You are ours_." Cool smooth skin of a jaw rubbed against his cheek smearing his blood between them. Harry did not know what the word 'basiatio' meant, but it felt important enough that he wished he understood or they would explain – but he did not ask, for he had other questions.

"What are you?" Harry asks shakily, he is afraid – and it burns – but their icy essence sooths away the sting.

" _We are Dementor. Wraith. Fairy. Sluagh Sídhe_." Whispers the one that has entangled itself with him, it licks at his ear playfully. The words roll about his head, and Harry knows what it means because the knowledge comes from the words and not from his own knowing. Still, he is calm and bathed in the icy bone-deep control they give him.

"You…you're names?" Harry asks of these two, feeling partly foolish – would something as old as these two, that have an aura of age a coldness the seeps under skin and soothes his fevered emotions…would it have a name he'd recognize as such – let alone pronounce? Harry does not know, yet he still asks.

" _Traditio Corporis_ ," murmurs the Dementor entangled around him, it seems intimate and Harry finds himself flushing stubbornly glancing to the other Dementor pointedly – neither seems to pay mind to his look, " _and Pervasor Memoria. He played within your memories and dream fantasy while you slept a little while ago. It was necessary to find and influence you so you would know we mean you no harm; say you forgive him, he fears your rejection._ " Harry knew he should be furious and frightened, yet they had not hid their names or the truth of their intentions, their mere presence brought the icy calm of peace over him. Harry wondered if this was what it felt like to die.

All the while, Harry had looked at Pervasor Memoria, who seemed now to flinch from him – not stepping backward, but flinging himself away as if Harry's gaze burnt, seeming to see some judgment in Harry's eyes that Harry had not meant to show. Traditio Corporis moved away, as if sensing that one rejection was like another blow to all.

Harry took several swift steps toward Pervasor Memoria, clutching at the elegant pale hand that hung within the folds of threadbare black cloth. He peered into the darkness of the hood, and though he saw only darkness and brilliant specks of light, like stars shining above, and felt as if that night sky was the distance Harry had to bridge, he spoke, keeping physical contact so not to burn with his emotions. He could think clearly only with them near, and he did not want to lose them to some imagined slight on his part to their natures.

"I forgive you _."_ Harry told the Dementor sincerely, and felt the brush of a cold burning mind caress where no hand could reach inside. The black hood bowed, as if thankful, though he did not speak.

" _Come then, Basiatio_ ," Traditio Corporis spoke, touching playfully at Harry's arm a too intimate gesture that Harry could not begrudge, " _let us fly_."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fire And Ice
> 
> Robert Frost
> 
> Some say the world will end in fire,  
> Some say in ice.  
> From what I've tasted of desire  
> I hold with those who favor fire.  
> But if it had to perish twice,  
> I think I know enough of hate  
> To say that for destruction ice  
> Is also great  
> And would suffice.
> 
> O.o.O.o.O.o.O
> 
> Translations (Latin);
> 
> Traditio Corporis – betrayal body
> 
> Pervasor Memoria – invader memory
> 
> Basiatio - the act of kissing, giving a kiss, being kissed, a kiss.


	3. Gliding On Thin Air

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This story is written for the idea of Sabishii Kage Tenshi who posted the review that met the review goal for "Reader Rewards" in the story "Dancing Within Mist". It should be noted that one alternate story I mentioned in chapter one has been posted, too; "Better Then Bedfellows" (Harry Potter/Remus/Sirius); but that is there, not here.
> 
> This is strictly Dementor's Trad (Traditio Corporis) /Harry and Perv (Pervasor Memoria)/Harry; yes, I'm going to start calling them that.
> 
> Why?
> 
> It amuses me, and as I named them, I can "nickname" them whatever I please.

Cold seeped into his limbs, until he felt heavy and numbly comfortable in the embrace Traditio Corporis had enveloped around him. Calm and sated and a little sleepily, Harry watched the stars and sky as they passed beneath them. It felt as if the sky opened up the stars, like a blooming flower, and anywhere Harry saw he thought he could move toward to explore.

Harry couldn't help the laughter that bubbled up and spilled from his lips, it was childish, but he was flying – he was _free_. It felt wonderful; all around him was the night sky, stretching out endlessly. His arms wrapped around the thin shoulders of Traditio Corporis, whose body moved beneath him, with a sort of comfortable familiarity of the natural movement. As if flying for the Dementor was like running for any other land-bound creature.

That thought led to a spiraling decent that was becoming wickedly familiar, if this was how a Dementor ran, then Harry was effectively 'riding' him; crudely put, that was how his dorm-mates had once described sex with a girl atop them.

" _Where…_?" Harry asked to distract himself; his voice rough from the silence and cold, time had passed and the rosy fingers of dawn were brushing the mist of night away. In the half light, Harry imagined how they must look, a boy with black hair and modern clothes, tucked in the shrouded arms of something out of a nightmare; while to and fro like a scouting predator darted Pervasor Memoria.

" _Castra Aestiva, little Basiatio_." A quick tongue licked at his throat, as if Traditio Corporis couldn't help himself, Harry's breath caught and something within him below his navel quickened, he couldn't help but whine. He squirmed in unmoving arms; the look to those arms was spider thin with a glazed transparency like glass. They didn't look as if they could hold a boy of fourteen, but frailty was undermined by such strength that made Harry to look down from them to the ground below.

Harry wasn't afraid of falling – he didn't know that he ever would be, but he wanted down for entirely different reasons. He ran a finger down the smooth cold skin, and when he breathed out shakily, his breath was a cloud of white. Traditio Corporis seemed to shudder, and then clutched at him all the tighter, as if he were something precious and frail.

Pervasor Memoria chuckled, sending a shivering chill down Harry's ear, when he spoke to explain, the boy teen couldn't help but think of other things that mouth could be doing to him – if the mere voice had this much power over him.

" _Bellow, little kiss;_ _Azkaban, summer station of our people_." An island of barren rock and cold cruel sea waves crashing upon the cliffs, perched at the highest and plainest point was the tower prison, like a giant three-sided obelisk.

Harry couldn't help looking at it, thinking of Sirius, of only a year free of this place that had swallowed thirteen – Harry's whole life. A song, eerie and haunting, rose up from the gloom and mist below; and like a flock of birds, more Dementors then Harry could count spiraled upward and around them, a thousand gem-bright eyes peeking at him from underneath hooded shawls.

Traditio Corporis, with a warbling cry of greeting that sounded at once triumphant and war-like, dove head-first toward the top of the Azkaban tower. Harry looked quickly toward where Pervasor Memoria had been – but wasn't now – they followed, seeming to chase Traditio Corporis down, and down, spiraling and diving and it was like a dance between prey and predator and Harry was breathless when abruptly and safely Traditio Corporis alighted to land, spinning Harry about to witness the rest of the Dementors swirling and circling like black mist, all of them shrieking out – Harry panted, watching them wide eyed like a flock of birds.

" _Welcome home, our Basiatio._ " Traditio Corporis breathed against his lips, solid weight behind him, protective and soothingly cold;Harry was breathless and panting with almost panic and grinning, teeth glinting; there was something in him that found this dizzying rush all in good fun, had recognized it from the start even as the rest of Harry had been sickened with hot dread.

Harry trembled, and Traditio Corporis inhaled, scenting him. As quickly as the Dementors had come – as active as they had been, they seemed to have scattered, and all was still below save the ever cashing waves.

Harry's breath caught in his throat, and he closed his eyes as chill fingers warmed by playing against his skin. Trailing from his forehead down his cheeks to tangle in his hair and rub soothingly at the nap of his neck, running along his spine, and fingers tucking into loose jeans, possessively spreading over his ass, cradling it then needing cat-like into the flesh. Harry trembled and shuddered and tried his best to just _breathe_.

" _Ours_." Traditio Corporis purred, as slender fingers probed and stretched. Harry's breath stuttered and started, as he tried to find a balance between breathing and holding his breath to _feel_ everything all the more. Harry's eyes dropped to the crashing waves below, and he thought of the fall, and closed his eyes tight.

" _Yes_!" He pleaded, agreed, begged. It was dragged out of him, willing and unwilling, Harry crashed and Traditio Corporis caught him, hugged him against a slender shrouded body that was strangely warmer then his own.

Pervasor Memoria knelt between his legs, licking pearly white cum from his white fingers. Harry just watched, as it slowly seeped into his brain that they had just done _that_ upon the heights of Azkaban prison; and he hadn't even noticed his jeans being yanked half-way to his knees. Pervasor Memoria smiled at him, pleased, and Harry felt his cheeks burning.

"Trad…" Harry said softly, beginning the name and stuttering as Traditio Corporis chill fingers soothed his burning cheeks.

" _Yes, call me that, it pleases me - you burn so beautifully, Basiatio."_ Trad murmured teasingly, cool breath soothing his overly warm ears.

" _Take him below_." Traditio Corporis tells Pervasor Memoria, who stands from his crouch and enfolds Harry in his wing-like shroud. Harry has the feeling of sinking, or missing a step without seeing, but its similar to flying and different to falling. Harry knows he's going to land – but he can't see where until Pervasor Memoria settles his cloak around him.

Harry opens his eyes and sees all around him a place that he doesn't think was ever meant to be clean. Filthy wizards and witches, with tattered clothing and dirty faces and sleepless shadows under their eyes see him, and do nothing –say nothing. They wait and watch, as if that is all they are meant to do.

 _This is wrong_ , Harry thinks and tenses within Pervasor Memoria's arms.

" _We can do nothing for them; they are not ours_." The Dementor states, as if having reached into his mind and seen the thought lucking there.

"I can." Harry says softly, hands clenched at his sides as righteous anger burns steadily within him. At his side, his companion seems to sway – Harry opens his mouth, but never speaks as he is interrupted.

"Pervert!" The warning is screamed by a woman with wild black hair, pale skin beneath the dirt, and dark eyes, mad, as if she had seen what lurked in the abyss that the night only held at bay.

" _You_ ," a thin and trembling finger prods toward the unmoving Pervasor Memoria, "you get _away from him_!" Dark eyes focus on Harry's bright green, and then narrow; the face is familiar to him, gaunt thought it is - hauntingly so. Her eyes flick then to his scar.

"Your mother's eyes, his cursing scar, your father's face –Harry Potter?" She frowns, and it's like a pout.

"I was supposed to kill you." She sounds almost ridiculously disappointed that she evidently failed. Harry takes a step back, sure that she is mad. As if to reassure that point, she hisses between her teeth at Pervasor Memoria; a warning, her slender hands curve into claws, as if she could tear through the bars and shred the Dementor to pieces just by will alone.

"Boy, I warn you by maiden name, Bellatrix Black – you stand at the side of Dementors!" Harry feels cold, but inside he is burning.

" _I know_." He spits the angry words, and feels the part of the betrayer, even as Pervasor Memoria's cool fingers stretch over his neck, as if easing away swelling or fever. Harry holds that hand there, comforted by it.

"A snake speaker…" Bella is wide eyed, watching him as she sits on the floor.

"What do you intend to do with us, my lord reborn?" Harry can't look at her, can only wonder if she's right – if he is turning into another dark lord simply because Dementors sooth him. It doesn't seem fair.

"Go away." Harry says, and all the cell doors in Azkaban open as if they'd been awaiting his command. Azkaban is as magical as Hogwarts, perhaps more so – and he wonders why that is, but the magic calls to Harry, as welcoming and exuberant as if expecting him. It isn't dark, or wrong, or right, or evil, or good – it's magic, and magic is pure like blood. It ties to everything, and everything ties to it. It's the source, and the means.

Harry knows that the doors were magically shut and cursed and locked; yet they stand open, and Harry doesn't want to undo it so he walks away. Bella uses the bars to stand, and smiles after him, the smile isn't cruel or mad, but strangely kind. Her nails, bitten and dirty, tap against the bar as she thinks; _I won't forget this, little lord._ Her fingers find a rhythm as she goes, and she hums.

She takes halting steps forward at first, as it all might be a dream, a trick – but it isn't – no one is screaming anymore. Bella wanders through the halls of Azkaban, taking her time as she sorts the mad from the insane; the useless and the useful and finds her cousin gone, and takes them all out; the Dementors await them outside the walls of Azkaban, some while and whimper that they'll have to run now, the Dementor's will chase them – stop them – but no, they are tormenters turned saviors all. They fly with Dementors and fear nothing.

Later, she'll kneel at the feet of another lord, and tell him why the Dementor's won't heed his call.

"Bella," he'll say in surprise, but pleased in ways only she can hear, "how is it you've escaped?" His red eyes rest not on her, but rover over all those that she thought useful enough and sane enough to meet his needs.

"Not escaped, my lord; freed. The Lord of Azkaban is a snake-speaker, and more, my lord you and he are tied by the scar you gave him." Bella runs a finger down her own brow, and it is almost mocking, but her smile makes her meaning clear. Tom Riddle, who calls himself the Dark Lord Voldemort, settles back in a dinning chair half rotted beneath him like it's a throne. His eyes closed, it's as if he's asleep as he thinks and dreams of all the things that will be.

"What do you suggest?" Her lord asks of her alone, as she knew he would.

"As a babe you meant to use the killing curse upon him and he lives. You are whole in body, but your soul is split asunder and you're immortal until the two are joined again or both are lost to this world. You have taken his blood unwillingly given; he has refused to be your servant. He and you were made to be great – I do not see why you can not be great together rather then great opposing forces." Bella has more at the tip of her tongue she could say, but does not – and her lord knows that.

"You think I should offer my hand in alliance." He rubs his thumb over his fingers, it is hand he did not have a year past; and would not have now, if not for the blood of the boy they speak of.

"Some things, my lord, are meant to be." She smiles as she says it, to take the sting away. He stirs then, making the effort to appear strong and healthy as he sits up straight and then stands to address her formally.

"Go to your cousin, my dear Bella, and tell him what you have told me – and that I seek a conversation with an old teacher of mine." At the end of his words, she stands and then bows.

"Yes, my lord." She knows this was the right choice, though her lord was still unsure.

She had dreamed of screams, did Bellatrix Black.

Usually they were screams familiar to her, for she had been the black hearted source of them, they were lovely screams; long and agonized and pitching into a frenzy that danced the fringes of madness and looked into the depths of dark and did not once look away. The screams and cries and keening were like unceasing music, lulling away with tide and crashing upon her unending come the full moon.

When she was awake, and the Dementor's full of wrath were near; the screams she heard were her own. Her screams became weeping and all the while, she remembered; she remembered when she was awake, and remembered when she dreamed, and all around her hovering carrion birds were her memories. They were inescapable and painful and greedy.

Bella did not think herself a good person, no; but she was a better one then this. She knew it when she saw him, with hunter green eyes and sun kissed skin, the black of his hair undecipherable from his shadows. This is who would make the dreams of the past go away.

Now the dreams of screaming are gone, and in its place, she dreams of him and a reign between lord-kings that will go on for eternity and bring forth a golden age for her people, pure-blood wizard and witch alike.

She'll smile now in her sleep.

When she wakes, she knocks on the door to12Grimmauld Place, and when Sirius Black answers the door, she only speaks five little words _("Your Godson is in Azkaban." )_ -before he can think to slam the door in her face; and when she sees the dawning fear for Harry, a building terror; she Apparated away with a rather cruel laugh.

It only served Sirius right, for stealing her boyfriend in a once-upon-a-time that he probably doesn't remember (she hardly does); pay back is a bitch named Bellatrix Black.


	4. Among The Shadowed Throng

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trad (Traditio Corporis)/Harry/Perv (Pervasor Memoria)! this is male/male, man/male!magical creature, SLASH story.
> 
> Notes; I'd just like to point out, sometime far after the fact, that the reason I'm using Latin is that it's tied directly to the origin of the word Dementor, that is "Demens"/(dementis ) insane, mad, out of one's mind, foolish.
> 
> Also Demens/Demons isn't too much of a stretch here.
> 
> Oh, and for those who are wondering who the hell I was referring to in: "It only served Sirius right, for stealing her boyfriend once-upon-a-time that he probably doesn't remember; pay back is a bitch named Bellatrix Black."
> 
> I'll straight out tell, else no one might see it: Severus Snape/ Bellatrix Black
> 
> Implying Severus Snape/ Sirius Black (because, damn, they hate each other enough to have more of a history) and Bella was calling Perv (Pervasor Memoria) a pervert – to warn Harry away from him. It doesn't work (obviously) and this chapter has more to do with what's going on after Bella leaves Sirius hanging.

Opening the door of 12Grimmauld Place, expecting someone of the Order and getting Bella, was bad enough. Her morning news?

_"Your Godson is in Azkaban."_

Were possibly the _worst words_ Sirius Black had ever heard since escaping Azkaban himself; the fact that they were delivered by his insane cousin, her lips stretching her face painfully like a skeleton's grin made it all the more bitter.

He hadn't known, hadn't even expected it.

Dumbledore was _supposed_ to be keeping Harry safe. Said, _trust me Sirius_ , and _the blood ties will keep him safe and secret, so long as he lives with them, they are family, blood, and blood does not care if you are magical or muggle, it's the gift of live, of love, and magic_.

Dumbledore was obviously very wrong; Sirius knelt on the stone floor of his fire place and made a fire call to the Headmaster of Hogwarts.

"Sirius? Whatever are you doing?" Sirius is supposed to be in hiding at Grimmauld Place, and to fire call Dumbledore in such a way is very…public.

"I just had a visit from Bella, she says _my Godson is in Azkaban_. Explain, Dumbledore – _now_!" The Headmaster may be powerful, respected, even admired. But Sirius Black is dangerous and Dumbledore knows it, a man who has spent thirteen years locked away for a crime he didn't commit – in a jail that is the most hated and feared in all the world - has learned all manner of dangerous things to survive.

"I didn't know, Sirius. I swear I didn't. Let me see what I can do about this. It is probably a lie." It's the wrong thing to say to a Black.

"Bella is many things Dumbledore, powerful, insane, pure-blood, _my cousin_ – an all around maker of wrong choices in her life, but the one thing she isn't? _She isn't a liar._ She was warning me. She felt she had good reason to: and wants me to do something about it. Something I've likely done, or will do, as it plays into her manipulation. So do something about it, Dumbledore – and I will do likewise." Sirius knows he's lost his temper; he screams and roars and whispers his words. _Likewise_ ends the fire call, he closes his eyes – he is the eldest, the Lord and Master of his line, it is high time he acted like it. He has been acting like a fugitive, like how he's been treated for the past thirteen years.

He is no fugitive, he committed no crime, and he calls. It isn't a yell, but a word. A test, a surety.

"Kreacher." His House Elf answers, faithful and grudging. In those beady black eyes he is not a worthy Lord and Master of the Black bloodline, and it pains Sirius to admit it – but Kreacher has been right, he hasn't acted like anything but a stray mutt.

Times change, people change, things change. It is time Sirius act as he was born to be: pure blood, an Heir. He must, if he is to save the one child of a man he changed for: Harry James Potter. James had been _like a brother_ , Sirius said, and meant it – James had been the son of Charles Potter and Dorea Black: so a Black by another name, a brother, and a pure blood too. Being a pure blood isn't bad, it's what you do with that name, that power of legacy and generation that makes you good or bad. Sirius had run from it, rather then find out who he was, for good or ill.

"Am I not the Lord and Master of the Noble and Most Ancient House of Black?" Kreacher's eyes widen, realizing the ancient acknowledgement between House Elf and the Lord and Master of a pure blood line. Sirius Black was the only living male Heir who carried the Black name. The only Black at all who carried the Black name, for his cousin Bella and her sisters had all married.

"You are." He says, not grudging or hateful or hurtful, but true and hopeful.

"Follow me." Sirius asks, and turned to the entrance hall, which he's been avoiding whenever he can. He doesn't turn around to check if Kreacher follows, but when he stands in front of his mother's covered portrait, the House Elf stands there.

"Uncover her." Sirius orders and Kreacher respectfully does so. Sirius braces himself, for insults, for what he must do.

"Filth, blood-traitor, bane of my blood!" Walburga Black, his mother, wails.

"Mother." Sirius greets her, though she lives no longer, a part of her is in this portrait. Through this portrait the next Lord and Master of the Noble and Most Ancient House of Black must be acknowledged. It's a test. A test that Sirius Black can not afford to fail: atest he's dreaded all his life.

"You dare, you dare! You who _ran away_ from your own blood claim me for your mother?" A curious hiss, hateful and hurtful. She is listening, at least – but that isn't fair, she always listened – she just did not heed him.

"I'm not running now, mother. I'm here. I'm the only Black left – either male or female, who can claim the name." It means something to her, and the same to him: even if he would pretend otherwise. It is name-right, blood-right.

"Why did you run from me – from us – you left me all _alone_ , Sirius." There had been a time in his mother's life when 12Grimmauld Place was full of family, a promise of greatness she had seen snatched from her with the death of his brother.

"I know, and I am sorry mother, so sorry. I'm alone now too, all alone in this old manor. It's empty of us, forgetting us, we're dying out." The pure bloods and what it meant to the history of all wizard and witch, their society. The Blacks, royal and always pure. Pure of _what_ , it's asked, by wizards and witches born of muggle blood, all unknowing. Pure lines of direct decent from the _Sídhe_ , where their magic was born of: those born of the muggle blood, the mud blood, called because they did not know, it was as clear as mud, from where their magic was came from.

Not from the earth, or blood, but from the shining light and deepest shadows of the hidden _Sídhe:_ and by their dying out, their decline it was feared that the _Sídhe_ too died, alone. Alone was the fear of all wizard and witches of the pure blood lines which had been abandoned by the _Sídhe._

"We have been dying out for a very long time. There are too few of us. Why did the _Sídhe_ leave us? They loved us once, as I loved you." Walburga Black was not mentally instable, because of inbreeding. It was because of the _Sídhe_ blood, which made humans quick to love or hate in equal measures, unable to tell where one emotion began and another ended, if they were in a rage.

Sirius had seen those rages all his life, had lived through them. Had them himself, the fleeting emotions that could make him reckless and wild. Perhaps it had been for their own good (as they might have seen, and feared) that the _Sídhe_ had gone away where wizards and witches could not follow.

"Love can not be taken away, mother – you taught me this." It was a truth no pure-blood would deny; they married and mated only for love. It was why witches and wizards married as they willed, and the family would not stop them. It was not why Sirius had run away, for love, so his family had not understood, and what is not understood by the family is feared – is a traitor to the blood, so called.

"So you do remember, that what else do you remember?" Walburga was calm now, soothed by the words her son uttered. He was not mad. She understood him, and perhaps it had been she who was hasty.

"That I was Heir, that I am the last named Black, I will be Lord and Master of the Noble and Most Ancient House of Black." She smiled, pleased that he claimed again to be of her blood, that he was not running away like a traitor to the blood of _Sídhe._

"So you are." Walburga Black, the Lady and Matron of the Noble and Most Ancient House of Black acknowledged her last living son with a smile.

To her son she bowed, and the portrait stood empty, his mother at peace.

When Sirius Black looked, Kreacher was bowing as well. Not all that was _Sídhe_ had left the wizards and witches, the House Elves remained, though few remembered why or where they had came from. Some would even have them freed. It was not out of duty that they served, but family and love.

"I must deal with the Ministry of Magic now." Sirius Black mused, Dumbledore had urged him to wait to clear his name, in hopes of still trapping Wormtail and the Dark Lord, but he would not be slow to act. Not now when Harry was in danger, in Azkaban.

"Lord Black, perhaps first we should meet with the Dark Lord and retrieve his servant, so as not to go before the Ministry of Magic without evidence of your innocence." Kreacher spoke, softly but insistently.

"Then by all means, Kreacher – take me to the Dark Lord." Sirius Black nodded permission, and Kreacher took them from 12Grimmauld Place.

O.o.O.o.O.o.O

Dumbledore would be lying if he claimed not to be alarmed by Sirius's fire call. So he made a fire call of his own, to one Minister of Magic - Cornelius Fudge.

"Not now – Dumbledore – not now!" Cornelius snarled into the fire, his manner disturbed, agitated and very clearly nervous. Albus didn't speak of it, because it would be rude to presume to know how much the Minister of Magic knew – or did not.

"Minister, I have received disturbing news this morning." Dumbledore continued on, outwardly unperturbed at his unwelcoming reception.

"Yes, yes, it's all true – though you must not breath a word of it, understand? – but the Dementors, they've flown away all the prisoners free. We've managed to capture a few, and when questioned as to why and how – they say, they say that the Dementors have a Lord of Azkaban and this Lord freed them!" Dumbledore only breathed for a minute, in and out, so as not to show how very disturbed he was at this news.

"Is that so?" He murmured, wonderingly. The Dementors were _Sídhe,_ Dumbledore knew, and _Sídhe_ were the origin, the parents of pure blood wizards and witches – that they claimed now a Lord of Azkaban; it could only be a _Sídhe._

But which, and why now? And what had Harry Potter to do with it at all?

"That's news to you? Wait – what were you fire calling me about then?" Cornelius Fudge demanded of him.

"Harry Potter has gone missing, and I have a source saying he is in Azkaban." The Minister of Magic made a sound, much like a whimper, a moan, of panic and pain. Albus Dumbledore feared it might all be too much for Cornelius Fudge, who had likely thought the job of Minister of Magic would be a easy and cushy place, after the fall of the Dark Lord and his Death Eaters.

Power corrupts, Dumbledore knew, and more – that the highest in power were often the first to fall – if a new power were to challenge and change.

"They _mustn't_ know Dumbledore – they must not!" Dumbledore nodded, in agreement – though it pained him. The Order of the Phoenix could be called upon at any time, they were ready and willing wizards and witches, but Dumbledore did not truly know, if they served him or Harry Potter more.

"The Minister of Magic no longer can claim control of Azkaban." Dumbledore spoke aloud, and cut off the fire call before Cornelius Fudge could ask his advice or help. He had plan and plots of his own to make, and in Sirius Black's fire call was a message for him, or else Bellatrix Lestrange née Black would not have left her Dark Lord's side.

It was done with the permission of Tom Riddle, if not order.

There was but one way to be sure.

"Severus Snape." Albus Dumbledore fire-called, and Severus looked tired – a late night – and ruffled, but there and in once peace.

"Headmaster?" This wasn't their usual meeting time, and the boy (man) frowned at him, suspicious. Spies did always fear that they were being spied upon: such were their poor lot in this life.

"Ah, there you are, I feared for you after this morning's messages, yet none from you – did Tom set a meeting we did not know of last night? Sirius got a message from Bella, your – or my - _Godson is in Azkaban –_ obviously meaning Harry Potter, but I do not know what to make of it. Has Tom claimed Azkaban, perhaps keeping Harry there? Or a _Sídhe_ returned, unknown and unnamed?You know the Black's best, my boy, what do you make of it all?" Albus shook his head, his thoughts all muddled together.

"Slow down sir, please. Yes, there was a meeting unplanned, unpredicted, as obviously you know, and Sirius Black can guess – Bella returned. With new recruits and Death Eaters both - we celebrated it; they didn't escape because of some plan of Voldemort's but were released by this Lord of Azkaban." Severus Snape moves stiffly, as one does when fallen asleep out of bed and uncomfortably.

"So that much is true then." Dumbledore muses on it, that a _Sídhe_ returns to claim a place of power known to wizards and witches. It is a dream to some, a nightmare to others.

"More so, the Dementor's willingly flew them to us, untouched, unKissed, and spoke of a Lord of Azkaban returned to rise and claim a _Sídhe_ place of power. He's Harry Potter, Bella says. It's like she's worried about him. She was singing of all the Lord-Kings three. Obviously the Lord of Azkaban, and the Dark Lord – but the third…?" Severus shakes his head, baffled.

"Why did you not tell me at once?" Dumbledore asks, and Severus aches an eyebrow.

"I suspect it was planned this way by Voldemort, I did not return until now, and yourfire calls have kept my news waiting." Droll and arrogant, but loyal and with a tongue that told the truth no matter how much it cut, Severus could be trusted that far – even Tom knew that, and valued Severus for it. It was not that the Dark Lord Voldemort did not know Severus was a traitor, it was that Tom knew how much Severus could be counted on to be a spy – and Albus knew the same.

It was in Severus's nature to survive, and no pure blood would turn aside Severus Snape for his _Sídhe_ nature: not and double cross their own.

"What's more, _he_ wants a meeting Dumbledore – Tom does." This made Severus Snape curious, intrigued, and such as the Professor of Potions loved a puzzle.

"The Forbidden Forest then?" It was neutral ground, had by magic both 'light' and 'dark'. Both _Sídhe_ (the light) and _Sluagh Sídhe_ (the dark) had claimed that land, loved it, and danced upon it, then abandoned it with their children, the wizards and witches.

"Of course..." Severus agrees, absently but with a nod. He will never forget, nor forgive. He has loved, and lost. Dumbledore wonders, sometimes, what would become of Severus Snape if both Bella and Sirius had loved him back, Bella had loved Severus first, and when he all unknowing had chased Sirius, abandoned him for Rodolphus Lestrange – who had loved her until Azkaban had done its work.

Once rejected by Sirius and James, Severus had joined to Bella's side, for a time - but if both had seen would it be too much, or just enough? Severus was torn and broken hearted, and Albus Dumbledore – having felt just the same, once and long ago - hated now to see it.

It is Severus that ends the fire call, and shakes Dumbledore into action.

He has a meeting with Tom Riddle tonight.


	5. Whisper Of Ancient Blood

"Sirius Black, what are you doing, are you mad?" Bella, of all people, asks this of her cousin when he appears. She's seen him first, but she isn't alone and the Dark Lord Voldemort looks up, studying him as well. Silently Sirius is surrounded by Death Eaters, the Dark Lord's inner circle.

"I announce Sirius Black, the Lord and Master of the Noble and Most Ancient House of Black." Kreacher calls even more attention to them, proudly as any pure blood born into arrogance.

"Welcome." Bella can not tell if the Dark Lord is serious or not. Bella does know that Kreacher is serious, very much so, so bows her head in acknowledgement of her cousins newly won (and it would be a battle, with Walburga Black to face for the blood right) rank in their family. Her cheeks are flushed, if the Dark Lord is being serious, that is one thing – if he is not, that is another, and he will pay. He loyalty first has always been to her family, and it's survival, no matter the pure-blood name.

"Why come here?" LuciusMalfoy, the husband of Bella's younger and favorite sister,Narcissa asks.

"Lord Black desires a boon, his cousins by blood right – the Ladies Bellatrix Lestrange andNarcissa Malfoy stand at your side, and yet he stands accused of a crime he did not commit. Yet it was committed by your servant Peter Pettigrew. Right this wrong against the name of the Noble and Most Ancient House of Black." This Kreacher demands, as if he is wizard and no mere House Elf. In the old days, this was done Bella remembers – very formally, the Lord Black would never speak save though his blood family and House Elves.

Bella straightens and looks the Dark Lord in the eye; for LuciusMalfoy's own eyes are wide. Between Malfoy and Black, Bella knows which family is the more powerful pure blood line, and if Lord Black demands must be met – or the family, Bella, Narcissa, and Andromeda threewould take their children Cissa's boy Draco, and Dromeda's girl Tonks – would go as the Lord Black willed.

"It will be done, only tell me how." Tom nods as if agreement had always been on his mind, and he had been waiting, bidding his time to agree.

"Your servant Peter Pettigrew." At these words Kreacher's grin is almost evil.

"My lord, please no – mercy!" Wails the most pathetic wizard Bella has ever set eyes upon, appealing to the Dark Lord only now as he hunches huddling at the feet of the Dark Lord.

"As you wish…" The Dark Lord makes a gesture, and the red mark about Peter Pettigrew wrist fades to black, fades from sight. He is unclaimed – a Death Eater no more, and no Death Eater will fight to keep him.

"Lord Black." Bella calls her cousin – weak and wimpy Sirius Black no more, formally and respectfully. It is a loneliness digging into her, to be the eldest of her sisters, to have only part of her family, and so scattered that their very names are not the same.

"A boon for me?" Kreacher glances to his Lord and Master, as if reading his mind. He might, who knows what unspoken powers the House Elves possess?

"Speak it." Kreacher asks, bobbing his head in a nod.

"There are no Lestrange's to whom I am married kin, and I was born Black – may I be named Bellatrix Black again, as is my birth and blood right?" Bella had never been disowned by the Black family, as Sirius was – but always Sirius was Heir – and only Sirius could be Lord, the last to have the name of Noble and Most Ancient House of Black.

"It is no boon to claim your name, a name that was always yours and will always be." Lord Sirius Black says, and Bellatrix Lestrange bows her head but when she meets his eyes, she knows her name is Bella Black.

"My thanks for reminding me." Bella agrees, and Sirius smiles. As if that is his sign for Kreacher, they are gone as quick as they came – and so too is Peter Pettigrew.

It is later when Severus Snape arrives, with news that Albus Dumbledore would meet the Dark Lord Voldemort in the Forbidden Forest.

With new eyes, Bella Black looks over Severus Snape, and smiles her own smile. He was hers first, a boyfriend she courted, and then lost because he chased and caught the attention of the Black Heir - but he will be hers again. She thinks Lord Black might even approve. Or share.

O.o.O.o.O.o.O

If there is one meeting that Cornelius Fudge will never forget - it is meeting Lord Sirius Black for the first time. He was in his office, doing paper work (there is a surprising amount of paperwork in being Minister of Magic, which really Fudge prefers to other –more important – duties: which in all honesty, he usually lets Dumbledore take care of for him) when _he_ appeared, by House Elf – and with Peter Pettigrew at his feet. That man, lumpy and unkempt quickly crawls to Cornelius Fudge – who lets out a yelp of surprise.

"Help me, oh please, help me!" Rat-like, the man screeches. There are Aurors at his door, wands drawn and alarmed – in their ranks are also members of Dumbledore's Order of the Phoenix, Fudge knows.

The curtains become ropes that bind the wreck of a man before he can flee or flatter. Fudge is almost relieved enough to be thankful.

"This is Peter Pettigrew, alive, and a traitor undeserving of the Order of Merlin too hastily given him by the Ministry of Magic. With his lips he shall tell no lies. My master's name is cleared from the crime of murdering his best friend James Potter and his wife Lily Potter, or any attempt on the life of Harry Potter." This the House Elf says, so simply, he does not care that a foundation of lies have become unstable and with the evening and morning papers, will topple down with the weight of truth. Over a decade buried, coming now to light.

"And your master, he is?" Cornelius Fudge is standing, so his voice does not shake as his knees do. At this the House Elf smiles, most unpleasantly – as if he had been hoping for just such a question.

"Sirius Black, the Lord and Master of the Noble and Most Ancient House of Black." With that the House Elf bows, though the man does nothing, shrouded in power so thick it's like a robe to carry: a wizard or witch does not like to look directly toward someone who wields so much power as this.

"Very good, Kreacher." Lord Sirius Black smiles, recklessly, and his words are a purr rumbling out of him, like thunder from a sudden storm.

And just like that, they are gone.

Cornelius Fudge isn't at all reassured he's seen the last of Lord Sirius Black.

O.o.O.o.O.o.O

While Albus Dumbledore walks into the Forbidden Forest, Tom Riddle, the Dark Lord Voldemort, already waits for him there.

"I must know if you've planned this – a visit from Lord Black, on the same day Harry Potter rides aback of Dementors to claim Azkaban for his own. Quite ingenious, and suspicious, you must surely admit, for it all to happen this very day." Tom speaks, as one equal to another, and Dumbledore knows there will be no fighting between them, not here. Here is a place lost to both wizards and witches of _Sídhe_ and _Sluagh Sídhe_ bloodlines, it is a pure blood place, it is sacred – and lost to them.

"I have played no part in these happenings; do you claim them at your own workings?" Dumbledore sits across from Tom, one on a rotted tree and one on a broken rock. Neither have their followers in sight, and neither sides expects to see their counter-parts. This is a pact, but neither is a stupid man.

"You know it is not in me, those great spanning plans. It's _brilliant_ , and I admire the effect – is all our world not scurrying to adjust? To change, we must relay on sturdy foundations – the foundations wizards and witches were bred for, by pure blood of _Sídhe_ and _Sluagh Sídhe._ Our ways are not mortal." Dumbledore sighs, and with his breath a Tom looks up, meets his eyes.

"They are now. You do not look well." Dumbledore tsks, and Tom laughs.

"And you? You are old, Albus Dumbledore. I'm not so bad, for one who's beaten Death." Tom had not thought Albus would care one way or another for his health.

"You'll not hold Death off for long. I wonder which of us will die first, the old man, or the man who had died and come back." Dumbledore does not think Tom came back whole – how can he, with his soul split and torn? It hurts him, to see the ruin of a student and wizard who could have been great and tossed greatness away for immortality, a impossible dream – not for the likes of they.

"I'd rather not linger on it, if it's all the same to you Albus. Think on this, the boy – the Lord Black, all on the same day, ancient powers coming back – our ancient family magic's – could it be them, the _Sídhe_?" Tom breaths that word, that name of their ancient race, breaths it as if its living, out there beyond the likes of their senses. Perhaps it is.

"Undoubtedly it is. Are not the Dementors of the _Sluagh Sídhe_?" Old lore that is, half believed, half thought merely myth. But with magic, what is myth is not always wrong.

"So says the old lore, the oldest. We know this, the question is – what will we do about this knowledge?" Dumbledore wishes everything were so simple, that they could sit and talk about it like this. For the world (muggle or magical) at large to think of this would be beyond their grasp, and that is _wrong_ (for the magical world)– that is mortal, for two sides to be always opposites and fighting to the death rather then agree to disagree and speak together, it is very mortal. Albus had often thought that the _Sídhe_ and _Sluagh Sídhe_ had foreseen this andfled from them rather then to let this mortal feeling of fighting and slaying an enemy infect them.

It had probably broken their hearts, to leave their very children – but which was worse? To flee family or mortality?

"Do? What can we do? Bella's suggested I set aside old grievances with the boy, make peace." Tom looked to the stars, and Albus wondered what he saw among them. What great and terrible things stars, to remind them of mortality and immortality.

"Can you, dare you?" Albus murmured, looking to Tom quite seriously. Tom felt that gaze, heavy and mortal – weighing him, judging him. He met it, and challenged it.

"Dare I not?" It was almost a whisper, and Albus would not have heard if the Forbidden Forest held a wind within it. It did not, all was silence and waiting. They had thought the Forbidden Forest dying; perhaps it did not die, but was abiding its time, waiting, as all immortal things wait to act.

"If the Dementors have chosen their Lord of Azkaban, the _Sluagh Sídhe –_ a Lord among us, that is three – the Lord Black, myself – I would be fool to challenge either of them, why not stand beside them? If it can be in the old way, like it was between _Sídhe_ and _Sluagh Sídhe_ – but between us, wizards and witches – is not a worthy thing? A great thing worth living to see…?" Tom asked it almost gently, for he did not like reminding Albus of mortality, as if it proved the old man right and Tom himself was not meant for immortality.

"Indeed." Albus only agreed, thoughtfully. He had not seen Tom without his hate and fear of his own (mortal) blood for so long he had forgotten what he was like without it. What promise he had had for greatness, destined for something – Albus had always thought so, but he had been wrong before – and right as well.

"So the Lord of Azkaban stands between the _Sluagh Sídhe_ and we; the Lord Black for the _Sídhe_ – and you Tom, Dark Lord that you are – where do you fit in with these three Lords-Kings?" Albus curled his fist under his chin and waited for Tom to say it, as only he could acknowledge what Albus Dumbeldore saw so clearly.

"Can you not guess? I'm the Dark Lord, the Lord of we, wizards and witches." Tom closed his eyes, painfully.

"And you have made a right mess of things." Dumbledore agreed, and Tom opened his eyes, fixed them upon his once teacher and mentor, and demanded an answer that Albus Dumbledore had not thought to live to hear.

"Can we fix things?" Thoughtfully, Albus Dumbedore nodded his head.

"We will need to put your soul back together, but your mind is in the right place." Tom was grateful enough to hear it, but things are far easier to say then to do. Yet things never said - rarely get done.

O.o.O.o.O.o.O

Sirius Black Innocent! _(front page)_

by Larry Ballad

Minister of Magic Cornelius Fudge announced today that Peter Pettigrew, long thought a dead hero, was apprehended today on murder charges. Veritaserum was given in a private case, revealing that Sirius Black was innocent in the murder of James Potter and Lily Potter. By his words admittance Pettigrew gave them up to the Dark Lord, and further Peter Pettigrew bears the Death Eaters mark leaving no mistaken identity almost thirteen years later. The Order of Merlin that was thought posthumously given has been gifted to Sirius Black. Who was unavailable for comment, also unavailable for comment was Harry Potter – but his friend Ron Weasley made this statement: "We knew he was innocent!"

Dumbledore announces DADA Professor _(pg. 10)_

by Rita _Skeeter_

Disproving rumors of the Jinxed DADA position, in light of the numerous accidents that have befallen previous professors Headmaster Albus Dumbledore came forward with news that position was filled and would not be left to last minute staffing this year. "We are proud to have Professor Marvolo on staff this year, and look forward to many more years of his teaching here." Dumbledore said, after having announced a mixed meeting of Hogwarts professors, students, and families – those in this meeting included, former DADA Professor Remus Lupin (the werewolf!) as well as Molly and Arthur Weasley – their daughter Ginny _, '_ Mad-Eye _'_ Moody, and Professor McGonagall. Sirius Black was also rumored to have attended, and while reactions to Professor Marvolo were mixed – Albus Dumbledore assures everyone that: "He'll settle right in."

O.o.O.o.O.o.O

**Author's Note:**

> Sabishii Kage Tenshi's Challenge;
> 
> It has to be Harry centered and rated Mature, because I want at least three lemons.
> 
> The story has to start the summer after Harry's fourth year and if you decide he needs to be betrayed for this to work for you it has to be by almost everyone, except Sirius, Remus, every Weasley except Ginny, Molly and Arthur and everyone else in the order except Severus Snape, Mad-Eye Moody, Prof. McGonnagall and Albus Dumbledore.
> 
> It has to be slash and there may be some humor if you want, but it will not be a humor-based story. It has to be a serious story!
> 
> Near the end or the middle of the story I want Harry to stay with the Dementors and I now I'll tell you what may be quite weird; I want Harry to hook up with one or more Dementors. That will be the pairing of the story. (There has to be lemons of Harry and at least one Dementor too!) You can decide the title yourself.
> 
> If you decide that you want to give this a try, contact Sabishii Kage Tenshi.


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